My Place by Sally Morgan

our family at this time was Legacy. All fatherless families of returned soldiers were assigned a Legatee. Legatees were generally gentlemen of good community standing who had a soft spot for children, and, while the system was only as good as the particular Legatee you got, we were very fortunate. Ours proved to be a kindly, older man with only one child of his own. His name was Mr Wilson, but we affectionately shortened it to Mr Willie.
    Mr Willie got into the habit of taking us to the beach, and on picnics and barbecues. He had what we considered a really flashy car, and we always felt very special when we rode in it.
    Mr Willie told us he would be taking us to all the Legacy outings, and he also informed us that we would all have to take part in the Anzac Day march once a year.
    â€˜Why do we have to march?’ I asked him one day.
    â€˜Because your father was a soldier. All children who belong to soldiers have to march. People need to be reminded of the legacy the war has left. And anyway, your father was a brave man, you should march to honour him.’
    I wasn’t keen to remind people of the war, but I couldn’t fault his argument about Dad.

Wildlife
    In no time at all, our house became inundated with pets. Cats, dogs, budgies, rabbits and, of course, the chickens — any stray creature found a home with us. When our cat population hit thirteen, Mum decided it was too much and found homes for half of them. Then, my white rabbit escaped, one of the dogs was run over, and another cat went wild.
    The dog we lost had been an old and treasured member of the family. I decided we needed another dog to replace him, so I persuaded Mum to look around some local pet shops.
    â€˜We won’t buy one, Mum,’ I confided, ‘we’ll just look.’
    â€˜No more animals, Sally.’
    â€˜I know, Mum, I know, but can’t we look?’
    â€˜All right. It’ll be an outing for you kids.’
    A pet shop nearby had six kelpie-cross pups, all of them adorable. We all huddled around their cage in awe as they licked our fingers and looked at us appealingly.
    â€˜That one,’ I said to Mum, as I eyed the largest pup. ‘We’ll take that one, Mum.’
    â€˜I’m not buying a dog, Sally. I’ve hardly got enough money to feed what we’ve got without adding to it.’
    â€˜That one’s older than the others,’ interrupted the shopkeeper. ‘No one seems to want him.’ It was the best thing he could have said.
    â€˜You see, Mum, no one wants him. What’ll become of him if we don’t buy him?’
    â€˜I’m not buying him.’
    â€˜Can I take him out of the cage and hold him, Mum, it might be the only cuddle he ever gets.’
    â€˜Good idea, little lady,’ said the storekeeper enthusiastically as he opened the cage.
    I lifted the pup out, he was gangly and awkward. ‘Isn’t he beautiful.’ I held him up to Mum.
    â€˜Oh my God, look at the size of his paws, they’re huge.’
    â€˜I’m sure his mother was only a corgi,’ said the shopkeeper quickly.
    â€˜More like an Alsatian. No, Sally, not now I’ve seen his feet. He’ll be a big boy when he’s fully grown.’
    â€˜But Mum, we’ve never had a big dog.’
    â€˜Please, Mum,’ pleaded my brothers and sisters.
    â€˜We-ll,’ Mum sighed as the pup gave her a lick.
    â€˜Be a good guard dog, Mum,’ said Billy.
    â€˜I’ll let you have him for half price,’ coaxed the storekeeper.
    â€˜Oh, all right,’ Mum groaned, ‘we’ll take him.’
    â€˜A real bargain, Mum,’ I smiled.
    We named the pup Blackie, because he was mostly black. A few weeks later, we renamed him Widdles, because of a tendency he had that we didn’t seem to be able to train him out of.
    One night, Mum complained about this new name. ‘I feel silly calling out Widdles when I want him to come for his tea, the